Chapter 16: 1608
9:30 PM
On the sixteenth floor of the Four Seasons Hotel, the hallway was carpeted with thick material, making hardly any sound underfoot.
The air conditioning vents hummed softly, and the air carried a scent mixed with disinfectant and high-end aromatherapy—not heavy, but perceptible.
Lynn stopped in front of room 1608, raised his hand, and knocked twice.
The door opened.
Hill stood inside the doorway, having changed into a dark gray bathrobe, her hair still wet as if she had just taken a shower.
She glanced at him, neither moving aside nor speaking, blocking the doorway just like that.
"What, do we need a password?"
Lynn said.
"I was wondering,"
Hill leaned against the doorframe, "
whether to let you in."
"Then take your time wondering."
Lynn put his hands in his pockets, making a move to turn around, "
Text me when you figure it out; I'm staying downstairs."
"Stop right there."
Hill called out to him, paused for a moment, and still stepped aside to open the door, "
Come in. Stop putting on an act."
The room wasn't large, featuring a bed and a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Manhattan night view, where the lights had not yet fully gone out, dotting the dark like stars.
On the coffee table sat an opened bottle of whiskey and two glasses, one of which was already empty.
Lynn sat down on the sofa by the window and glanced at the bottle of wine:
"Did you drink this all by yourself?"
"I drank it while waiting for you."
Hill sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the other glass, poured half a cup, and handed it over, "
Drink a little to warm up."
"Thanks."
Lynn took it, took a sip, and looked at her, "
About what happened that night in Berlin—you said in the coffee shop earlier to pretend it never happened, so what is it supposed to mean now that you've called me over?"
Hill didn't answer. She held her glass, looking out at the night view, and didn't speak until a long while later:
"Did you recognize me at a glance back then?"
Lynn didn't deny it:
"That aura of yours is impossible to hide."
"I was on a mission that day."
Hill said, "
It was a temporary operation, things went wrong, and I barely made it back alive.
After wrapping it up, I was in a terrible mood, didn't want to go back to the base, and randomly found a bar to drink. Then you showed up."
"You were drunk that day."
Lynn said, "
I originally didn't want to meddle, but you were the one who started talking to me first."
"I started talking to you because you kept staring at me."
Hill turned her head to look at him, "
I'm more used to the intuition of being watched than you are.
I thought you were sent by the target's side and was about to make a move, but what you said when you opened your mouth was 'It's easy to get drunk drinking alone, let me treat you to a meal.'"
At that, she chuckled softly to herself, her smile carrying a hint of self-mockery:
"I must have been out of my mind back then—a strange man offers to buy dinner, and I actually went."
"Didn't you run a background check on me later?"
Lynn swirled his glass, "
What did you find out?"
"I found out that the younger son of the Stark Family had a background so clean it was ridiculous."
Hill said, "
Reclusive, no criminal record, no scandals, no social media accounts. The cleaner the background check, the more abnormal I felt it was.
But my mission hadn't wrapped up yet at that time, so I didn't have the time to dig deeper.
By the time I remembered and went to check again, you had already returned to New York."
"So you've been remembering this all along?"
Lynn looked at her.
Hill was silent for a few seconds, ignored that topic, and instead asked:
"That night in Berlin... you just walked away like that? Without even leaving a phone number?"
"You didn't leave one either."
Lynn said, "
When I woke up the next morning, you were already gone, leaving only a single strand of hair on the pillow."
Hill was choked up by his words, her trace of coldness slipping slightly. She picked up her glass, took a sip, and said nothing.
The room fell silent, with only the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional sound of cars passing by outside the window.
"Then tonight,"
Lynn put down his glass and looked at her, "
How are we going to settle this?"
Hill put down her glass as well. She stood up, walked over to him, and looked down at him, her grey-green eyes appearing somewhat deep in the dim light.
"Settling old scores."
She said, "
I've been keeping count of the score from that night in Berlin for half a year."
As she spoke, she reached out to hook her fingers into his collar, pulled him up from the sofa, and dragged him toward the bed.
Lynn let her drag him a couple of steps before suddenly laughing:
"Your skill at holding grudges is even more accurate than your marksmanship."
"Cut the crap."
Hill pushed him down onto the bed, pressed down on top of him with a knee propped against him, and looked down at his face, "
Tonight, I call the shots."
Lynn lay on the sheets, tilting his head back to look at her as the lighting behind her gathered into a warm, yellowish shadow.
He caught the scent of her shower gel—fresh from the bath and still carrying moisture—mixed with a faint trace of alcohol.
"Fine."
He raised a hand, cupped the back of her neck, and pulled her down, "
You go first."
The old scores from Berlin were cleared one by one in the ensuing chaos.
Her movements were crisp and decisive, rooted in her military background.
Compared to Natasha's slippery, entangling style of close combat, Hill was more like a frontal assault—every move solid, no pretenses.
But her strength wasn't a match for his; whenever she tried to turn the tables, he would pin her wrists and press her back down.
"You damn..."
Panting, she bit down on his shoulder, "
With such monstrous strength, what did you grow up eating?"
"Dewdrops."
Lynn's voice was muffled against the crook of her neck, "
Would you like to taste some?"
She cursed under her breath and then laughed.
The night outside deepened little by little.
The sheets were rumpled, the duvet kicked onto the floor, and one of the glasses on the coffee table had been knocked over at some point.
Whiskey soaked into the carpet, but no one cared.
When the first round ended,
she lay prone on his chest, panting, her sweat-dampened hair clinging to her cheeks while her fingertips traced circles on his collarbone:
"That night in Berlin, I should have realized you weren't a normal person."
"What's abnormal about me?"
"Normal people don't have your kind of endurance."
She propped herself up to look at him, "
Have you forgotten what time you kept going until that night?"
"I remember."
Lynn reached out to brush the damp hair from her face, "
Four o'clock."
"You remember quite clearly."
"Good memory."
He said, "
Especially for keeping score."
She let out a huff, rolled off him, and lay down beside him. After a few seconds, she rolled back over, straddled his waist, and looked down at him with a rebellious gleam in her eyes.
"Again."
She said, "
I refuse to believe this."
The second round was even more grueling than the first. Having learned her lesson, she didn't try to confront him head-on; instead, she targeted the exact moment he had just recovered his breath, moving slowly and agonizingly to keep him hanging. Her deliberate pacing made Lynn's temples throb, prompting him to grab her waist and flip her beneath him with a counter-maneuver.
"You're breaking the rules."
She lay facedown on the bed, turning her head to glare at him.
"You didn't say breaking rules wasn't allowed."
He leaned down, pressing close to her ear, "
You did the same thing in Berlin—refusing to admit defeat."
"...Shut up."
When the third round ended, the sky was already growing faintly pale.
A gray-blue light tinged the sky outside the window, and most of Manhattan's lights had gone out, leaving only scattered specs like sleepless souls.
Hill lay on her side, facing away from him, her bathrobe long since discarded and the duvet pulled up only to her waist.
Lynn leaned against the headboard, looking at the brightening sky outside, and reached up to pull the slipping duvet higher.
"...Don't move around."
She mumbled lazily, her voice thick with exhaustion, "
Tired."
"Even you have times when you admit to being tired."
Lynn said.
She didn't reply. After a long while, her breathing finally evened out completely as she fell asleep.
Lynn didn't sleep. He leaned there, listening to her steady breathing and watching the daylight slowly brighten outside the window.
His phone buzzed on the bedside table.
He reached out and picked it up. The screen lit up with a message from Coulson:
Mr. Lynn, did you sleep well last night?
S.H.I.E.L.D. has a favor to ask of you. Once it's done, we can talk about what you want.
Lynn looked at the message, then down at Hill sleeping beside him, and didn't reply.
He put the phone back down, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the edge of the screen.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Coulson.
And the S.H.I.E.L.D. Deputy Commander lying beside him, her brow still slightly furrowed in her sleep.
He closed his eyes. The morning light outside filtered through the curtains, falling over both of them.
The New York morning was so quiet that only the hum of the air conditioner and her steady breathing remained.
Chapters 17 conditions
Just as dawn was breaking, more than half of the lights in Manhattan went out.
Lynn was awakened by a rustling sound of fabric.
He opened his eyes to find Hill already sitting on the edge of the bed getting dressed, her back facing him, her shoulder blades tracing a sharp, clean line in the morning light.
Her movements were swift, buttoning up her shirt one by one, with no intention of turning back to look at him.
"Awake?"
She asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
"Mhm."
Lynn leaned against the headboard, looking at her retreating back,
"Leaving so early?"
"There's something at the base."
Hill stood up, straightened her collar, and only turned back to glance at him when she reached the door, the faint expression on her face hard to make out.
"About last night—"
"That debt from the night in Berlin,"
Lynn interrupted her,
"wasn't it paid off last night?"
Hill paused for a moment, as if wanting to say something, but swallowed it back down.
She pulled open the door, and the cold air from the hallway poured in.
"That debt is cleared,"
she said,
"Starting today, we count from scratch."
The door closed, and the footsteps faded down the corridor, soon becoming completely inaudible.
Lynn lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment before reaching out to grab the phone on the bedside table.
Coulson's message was still lit up:
Over here at S.H.I.E.L.D., there's a favor we'd like to ask of you. Once it's done, we can talk about the things you want.
He looked at it for two seconds and replied:
"What time? Where to meet?"
The reply came very quickly:
"Ten in the morning, same coffee shop."
Ten o'clock, the corner of Seventh Avenue.
It was still that coffee shop with the faded signboard, still carrying that warm scent of butter mixed with coffee.
Coulson was already sitting in his usual spot, though this time Hill wasn't sitting beside him; instead, a thick document bag was spread out on the table.
"How did you rest last night?"
Coulson asked, the faint smile on his face still the same old lukewarm expression.
"Pretty good."
Lynn sat down opposite him. "If there's business, let's talk business."
Coulson didn't beat around the bush and pushed the document bag over:
"After Obadiah Stane was captured, we confiscated most of his data.
But there was one branch that wasn't completely cleared out.
A data backup of the research and development plan code-named 'Arc Reactor' was copied from the internal server by someone forty-eight hours before Stane was arrested."
Lynn flipped through the files without raising his eyes:
"Who copied it?"
"A technician named Vincent Luo,"
Coulson said. "One of Stane's confidants.
He disappeared right after copying the data, without even returning home.
We tracked his records for three months, and his last appearance was in Hong Kong.
He took that data and posted an order on the black market."
"What did he post the order for?"
"To sell,"
Coulson said,
"The technology of the Arc Reactor, even a stripped-down version, is enough to support an entire network of arms dealers.
We haven't found out who the buyer is yet, but we've locked down the time and location of the transaction."
He placed a photo on the table. The photo showed a yacht parked in some bay, with figures bustling on the deck.
"Three days from now, in Singapore waters."
Coulson's finger tapped on the photo,
"A private auction will be held right on this ship. Vincent will bring the data to the scene, and the buyer will be there too."
Lynn put down the files and looked at him:
"You guys at S.H.I.E.L.D. are quite capable fighters, aren't you? A technician plus an auction—wouldn't it be easier to just raid them directly?"
"That's exactly the problem."
Coulson's smile faded a bit,
"This yacht is registered under the name of a Singaporean businessman. That businessman has ties with politicians from several countries; if we make a move openly, diplomatically we won't be able to explain it."
"So you want me to do it off the books?"
"Not off the books."
Coulson said,
"It's having someone 'unrelated to S.H.I.E.L.D.' retrieve the data for us. Once it's done, the data belongs to us,
and as for those buyers on the ship, you can deal with them however you like.
It's none of our business."
Lynn leaned back against the chair, looking at Coulson, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop:
"You guys are using me as a gun."
"Not for nothing."
Coulson said,
"Name your conditions."
Lynn remained silent for a few seconds. The sky outside the window was still overcast, there weren't many people in the coffee shop, and the sound of the coffee grinder rang intermittently.
"I have a condition."
He said,
"You guys at S.H.I.E.L.D., help me look into someone."
"Who?"
"Ivy Blake."
Lynn said,
"The owner of a New York modeling agency.
I always feel that this person is a bit off, but I can't get to the bottom of it. Your S.H.I.E.L.D. database should be deeper than the channels I have in my hands."
Coulson raised an eyebrow, as if he had some impression of the name, but didn't ask for details, merely nodding:
"Sure. Checking someone's background isn't difficult for us."
"There's one more thing."
Lynn added,
"This matter I'm handling for you, starting from now, vanishes from my records.
I don't want to wake up one day and find out I've become an off-the-books Agent for S.H.I.E.L.D.."
Coulson smiled:
"That request is certainly interesting.
Rest assured, you aren't on the payroll in the first place.
Once the job is done, you have nothing to do with us, and we have nothing to do with you."
"Deal."
Lynn stood up, picked up the document bag, walked to the door, then stopped without turning back:
"Send the detailed intelligence of that ship to my phone."
"It's's arrive before tonight."
Coulson's voice came from behind. "By the way,
Mr. Lynn, a friendly reminder. The buyers on that ship don't have clean backgrounds, and a few of them have blood on their hands. Be careful yourself."
"Rest assured."
Lynn pushed open the door, and the wind chimes rang once,
"As for me, I have a hard life."
Three days later, Singapore.
Night, sultry. The sea breeze wrapped in salty, fishy moisture clung to people's skin, sticky and heavy.
On the distant sea surface, a white yacht was lit up, anchored quietly like a piece of jade embedded in the ocean.
Lynn stood in the shadows of the pier, carrying a black briefcase in his hand, wearing an ill-fitting dark suit with his tie tied loosely, looking very much like a third-rate middleman coming to attend the auction.
He lowered his head to glance at his phone.
The last message sent by Coulson, besides the structural diagram and security deployment of the yacht, also attached a line of small text:
"Buyer's identity confirmed: Middle East arms dealer, code-named 'Vulture'. Also—the person you wanted me to check, there are results."
"Ivy Blake, real name unknown, but among her capital flows, there is one that overlaps with the private account of a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. official."
"Couldn't investigate further, anything higher requires clearance. Watch yourself."
Lynn looked at those words, his thumb pausing on the screen for two seconds.
Ivy Blake.
Had dealings with a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. private account.
He narrowed his eyes, put his phone back into his pocket, and carrying the briefcase, walked toward the lit-up yacht.
Chapter 18 Auction
The yacht was larger than he had imagined.
It had three decks and a white hull. The deck was paved with teak flooring, emitting a warm glow under the lights.
The air was mixed with the scent of champagne, women's perfume, and the salty fishy smell whipped up by the sea breeze. The three scents intertwined, making it hard to tell whether it was extravagant or suffocating.
Lynn carried a briefcase and boarded the ship with the crowd.
At the entrance, two security guards in black suits had their hands resting loosely near their cuffs.
That was where their firearms were positioned.
"Please show your invitation card."
One security guard reached out to block him, sizing him up from head to toe.
Lynn took a gold-stamped invitation card from his pocket and handed it over, looking unhurried:
"I'm just running errands for someone to take a look at the goods."
The security guard took the invitation card, flipped through it, glanced at him again, and stepped aside to let him pass.
About twenty people had already gathered in the banquet hall on the middle deck of the yacht.
There were old men wearing old-fashioned three-piece suits with slicked hair, upstarts wearing sunglasses and gold teeth who practically wanted to write "I am rich" across their faces, and several women wearing high-slit dresses, arm-in-arm with their respective buyers, smiling insincerely.
Lynn stood still in the corner, swept his gaze around, and quickly locked onto his target.
On the east side of the banquet hall, beside the bar, sat a thin man in a white shirt with his cuffs rolled up, with a barely touched glass of whiskey in front of him.
From time to time, he looked up at the door, then lowered his head to fiddle with his phone, his knuckles turning white.
Vincent Luo was extremely nervous.
Lynn held a glass of champagne, strolled over leisurely, and sat down in the seat next to him.
Vincent gave him a wary look and moved a bit to the side.
"Don't be nervous,"
Lynn took a sip of champagne and lowered his voice,
"I'm here to check out the goods."
"Check out what goods?"
Vincent's voice was dry.
"The one you're going to sell."
Lynn raised his glass to him,
"Don't worry, I'm not stealing your business. I'm just taking a look for a client to see if the thing in your hands is real or fake, and whether it's worth that price."
Vincent stared at him for a few seconds. The wariness on his face didn't disappear, but his tense shoulders relaxed by half:
"…I've seen plenty of appraisers, but this is the first time I've seen one looking like you."
"What do I look like?"
"You don't look like you're in this line of work."
Vincent said,
"You look more like you're here on vacation."
"That's where you're an outsider."
Lynn said with a straight face,
"In this line of work, the more you look like you're not in it, the more you are in it. This is called leaning into contrast, understand?"
Vincent was stunned for a moment by his set of "nonsense literature". Figuring he didn't look much like a cop, he lowered his head and took another sip of wine.
At this moment, a bald, muscular man walked over, stood still beside Vincent, and cast a condescending glance at Lynn:
"Mr. Luo, the boss invites you to come over and inspect the goods."
Vincent nodded, got up, and followed him, turning back to look at Lynn before leaving.
Lynn didn't move. Holding his champagne, he watched them walk across the banquet hall and into a closed cabin at the end of the corridor.
He put down the champagne and was about to follow when a middle-aged man wearing a gold chain walked up, speaking with a stiff accent:
"Brother, are you also here to buy that batch of 'good stuff'?"
"No."
Lynn said,
"I'm here to watch the show."
"Watch the show?"
The gold-chain man looked suspicious,
"In a place like this, who comes just to watch the show?"
"Well, now you're seeing one."
Lynn patted his shoulder,
"Think about it, chew on it carefully."
The gold-chain man was stunned silly by his pats,
probably thinking this guy didn't have a very good brain, and walked away resentfully.
Just as Lynn was heading toward the corridor, the lights in the banquet hall suddenly dimmed, and a spotlight hit the stage at the very front.
A host in a white suit walked up, cleared his throat, and spoke with a smiling face:
"Distinguished guests, welcome to tonight's auction.
Without further ado, there is only one grand finale lot tonight,
the top-secret technical data from Stark Industries' R&D department, the 'Ark Project'."
The air below the stage visibly heated up. Someone straightened their posture, others whispered to each other, and even the gold-chain man couldn't care about looking at Lynn anymore, his eyes staring straight at the stage.
The host was still speaking:
"The old rules apply: inspection of goods takes place backstage, and bidding is done via codes.
Interested distinguished guests, please follow me to the reception room in the back."
A crowd of people followed the host toward the corridor.
Lynn mingled in the crowd. As soon as he reached the entrance of the corridor, he was blocked by the bald, muscular man:
"You, you weren't invited."
"Oh, I'm just going in to borrow some air conditioning."
Lynn said.
The bald, muscular man blocked the way expressionlessly:
"If you weren't invited, you weren't invited."
"No, big brother, look at how hot it is—"
Lynn paused, suddenly straightened his expression, and lowered his voice,
"Actually, I'm one of Vincent's people, keeping an eye on the scene for him. Let me in, and there'll be something in it for you later."
The bald, muscular man looked at him half-doubtingly and was about to speak when a muffled sound suddenly came from deep inside the corridor—
sounding like a heavy object hitting the wall, immediately followed by a short gasp of surprise.
The bald man's expression changed, and he bolted inward.
Lynn followed behind, rounded the corner, and saw the door of a cabin wide open. Vincent was pinned against the wall, and a fierce-looking man with a scarred face was choking his neck, roaring in a hoarse voice:
"Where's the copy?! Are you fucking playing with me?! Take out another one!"
"I… I don't have any more… just that one…" Vincent was choked until his eyes rolled back.
The scarred man released his hand, pulled a gun from his bosom, and pressed it against Vincent's forehead:
"Then don't blame me for being merciless."
Lynn stood at the door, watching this scene, and sighed.
He turned his head to look at the pale-faced bald man beside him:
"Is this the level of security you have here?"
"…Huh?"
"Never mind."
Lynn shoved the briefcase into his hands,
"Hold this for me, don't spill it."
The bald man instinctively caught the box. Before he could react, Lynn had already walked into the cabin and casually closed the door behind him.
The door closed behind him, cutting off the noise outside.
Hearing the commotion, the scarred man turned his head sharply, shifting his muzzle to point at Lynn:
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Guess."
Lynn said.
The gun fired.
The moment the bullet left the barrel, Lynn sidestepped, and the bullet grazed his earlobe, embedding itself into the door panel behind him.
The scarred man froze for a fraction of a second, as if he hadn't expected anyone to be able to dodge it.
In that very fraction of a second, Lynn was already upon him, grabbing his gun-wielding wrist, lifting it upward, and shooting to shatter the light on the ceiling with another shot.
In the darkness, a muffled grunt came, followed by the sound of a human body slamming onto the floor.
A few seconds later, Lynn's voice came from the darkness, carrying a hint of helplessness:
"Why do you people always love to shoot first? Aren't you screwed now?"
Groping around, he fished out the coin-sized encrypted storage device from Vincent's bosom, spun it around his fingertips, looked down at the paralyzed scarred man on the ground, and added:
"Also, big brother, when you choke someone, can you not use so much force? You made the hostage roll his eyes from choking, acting like it was real."
Vincent sat limply on the ground, looking at him with lingering fear, his voice trembling:
"Who… who the hell are you?"
"Your savior."
Lynn put the storage device into his pocket and patted his shoulder,
"By the way, I'll tell you some good news.
I'ratherve taken your copy of the data. As for your 'backup copy', don't sell it; keep it to save your life."
"I don't have a backup."
"You do."
Lynn interrupted him, squatted down, and looked into his eyes,
"Vincent, if you really only had one copy, you would have been scared to death when that big brother choked you just now.
A guy like you starts with at least three backups, I get it. Keep them safe yourself, and don't list them for sale again."
Vincent opened his mouth, unable to say a word.
Lynn stood up and pulled open the cabin door.
Outside the door, the bald, muscular man was hugging his briefcase. Watching him come out and then looking at the paralyzed person on the ground inside the room, he looked blank.
"Let's go."
Lynn took the box from his hands and patted his shoulder,
"Right, remember to tell your boss
that tonight's 'auction' suffered dereliction of duty by the organizer, goods were lost, and no responsibility will be assumed.
If anyone asks, just say it was done by someone who 'didn't look like they were in this line of work'."
"Leaning heavily into contrast."
He added, turning around and walking toward the gangway.
The sea breeze blew against him head-on, and the salty water vapor hit his face.
Lynn carried the box off the ship, turned around to glance at the brightly lit yacht, smiled, took out his phone, and sent a message to Coulson:
Goods acquired. I've put the data in the usual place for you.
Don't ask about the process, if you ask, it's just good luck.
A few seconds later, Coulson replied:
I won't ask about the process. But there is a new situation.
The person you asked me to investigate, she is also in Singapore tonight.
Lynn's footsteps paused.
He looked at the line of words on the phone screen, while the night breeze carried the music and laughter from the ship from afar, mixed with the sound of the waves.
Ivy Blake.
Is also in Singapore.
Chapter 19: New Ability, Wheel King
Singapore, Marina Bay, 11:00 PM.
The air was humid and stuffy, feeling like being wrapped in a hot towel.
Lynn got out of the taxi, the back of his T-shirt drenched and sticking to his skin.
He looked up at the glass-curtain-walled high-rise in front of him — the top floor was a private club, membership-based with strict access control, but in the documents Coulson gave him, even the exact shift-change times for the back door cleaners were written out clearly.
He went around to the side door, changed into a waiter's uniform he had swiped from somewhere, and slipped into the top-floor bar holding a tray.
The bar's lighting was dim, and the air conditioning was blasted so high that goosebumps broke out the moment he stepped inside.
The air was mixed with whiskey, perfume, and a sweet, cloying tropical floral incense. In a booth by the window, a woman sat alone with a martini in front of her, holding a cigarette between her fingertips and looking at the night view outside the window.
Ivy Blake.
She had switched to short hair, looking much sharper than when they met in New York, though that "don't mess with me" aura remained unchanged.
Lynn put down the tray and sat down opposite her.
Ivy looked up, saw him, and the hand holding her cigarette paused for a moment before she smiled, showing not a hint of surprise:
"I was just wondering why my eyelids kept twitching tonight."
"Did you know I was coming?"
"A guy like Coulson never investigates people cleanly."
Ivy took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled slowly,
"Since he gave you the files, you were bound to track your way here sooner or later. I just didn't expect it to be this fast."
"Then you should have guessed what I'm here to ask."
"Ask about my background?"
Ivy flicked her ash, looking at him, and said,
"Lynn, are you sure you want to ask here?"
"What's wrong with here?"
"Here,"
she lowered her voice,
"is my territory. My people are guarding downstairs. If you start something with me here and make too much noise, it won't end well."
"I have no intention of starting anything with you."
Lynn leaned back against the chair back, "I just want to figure out how someone who runs a modeling agency could possibly know that the Stark Family isn't just what you see on the surface. Did you figure this out yourself, or did someone tell you?"
Ivy didn't answer.
She put out her cigarette, picked up her glass and took a sip, shifting her gaze away to the night scenery outside the window.
"Someone told me."
She said,
"But who that person is, I can't tell you."
"Then I'll change the question."
Lynn said,
"How long has that person had you keeping an eye on the Stark Family?"
Ivy fell silent for a few seconds and was just about to open her mouth—
When the bar suddenly quieted down.
That kind of quiet wasn't the absence of sound, but rather all sounds stopping together for half a beat.
Lynn's ears captured behind him, ahead of his consciousness,
from two directions, the footsteps of at least six people pressing against the carpet as they closed in from all sides.
The footsteps were very light, but their rhythm was too uniform, indicating they had been trained.
He put down his glass, didn't turn his head, and said in a low voice:
"Your people?"
Ivy's expression also changed. She stared in the direction behind Lynn and shook her head:
"Not mine."
Before her words fell, the lights in the bar went out.
In the darkness, a gunshot grazed Lynn's ear and nailed itself into the back of the booth behind him, wood chips flying everywhere.
Immediately following was the explosive sound of multiple guns firing simultaneously, bullets drawing dazzling trails of fire in the dark, all greeting their direction.
Lynn shoved Ivy down, and the two of them rolled behind the booth. The sofa back was instantly blasted to pieces, with cotton stuffing and wood chips flying all over the sky.
"What the hell kind of people did you provoke?"
Ivy cursed him in a suppressed voice.
"I should be asking if it's you who provoked them!"
Lynn retorted,
"You just said this place was your territory. Where are your people?"
"They're all stationed downstairs! For this bunch of people to be able to get in from here—"
Ivy's voice paused, as if she had thought of something,
"... Oh no, they're coming for me."
The gunfire stopped.
In the darkness, a voice sounded with a chuckle:
"Miss Blake, the boss asked me to pass along a message—"
"People who know too much generally don't live long. If you know what's good for you, hand that thing over, and you can still be left with an intact corpse tonight."
Ivy's face turned pale in the darkness for a fleeting moment.
Lynn looked at her:
"What thing?"
"... A list." Ivy gritted her teeth, "Their boss is part of that gang that made a deal with Obadiah. I have the records of their transactions in my hand, originally meant to save my life—"
"And now?"
"Now,"
Ivy smiled bitterly,
"I'm afraid it's going to turn into a death warrant."
In the darkness, that voice sounded again:
"I'll count to three. Three, two—"
One.
The exact moment those words fell, a long-absent mechanical sound rang out in Lynn's mind.
[Ding! Detected that the host is in a high-risk gang-up state, this system has decided to spice things up.]
[Unlocked new template: Wheel King - Ultimate Enduring Wholesome Template (Side-Effect-Free Complete Version)!]
[Stripped away: Impotence, mid-way disconnections, sage time, and all other shortcomings.]
[Retained: Fatigue-free endurance, explosive battery life, ultimate bodily control, and... those who know, know.]
[Special rule in effect: "Getting stronger the more one fights" during activation, featuring "The Wheel King never leaves the field".]
[Friendly reminder: This template can also be applied to combat, escaping for one's life, and all occasions requiring endurance.]
Lynn cursed inwardly:
"... System, can you be a bit more serious?"
[Cannot. This is the corporate culture of this system.]
He had no time to banter with it.
In the darkness, the first bullet had already flown toward him.
Then, he felt the changes in his body when the template truly took effect—
Not faster, not stronger, but... unable to get tired.
In the hail of bullets, other people's stamina was a downward-sloping curve, while his was a straight line.
Lynn stood up from behind the booth.
He walked forward braving the hail of bullets. The bullets grazed his hem, his shoulders, and the tips of his hair, but he couldn't even be bothered to dodge, because he could see the trajectory of every single bullet clearly—
Not relying on his eyes, but on that absolute control over every inch of his body honed through long-term prolonged endurance battles.
Which direction had a muzzle, which side would fire first—he only needed to glance, and it was all in his head.
"You six people,"
he said as he walked forward,
"firing at full firepower for almost half a minute, your gun barrels must be hot, right?"
In the darkness, an assassin abruptly pivoted their muzzle and fired three shots in succession.
Lynn tilted his head slightly, three bullets grazing his auricle and embedding themselves into the wall behind him.
He reached out and patted the man's shoulder: "Take a break, big guy. With stamina like yours, if you were put in bed, you'd only last three minutes."
"..." The assassin was completely frozen, as if he didn't understand what he was talking about.
"What I'm talking about is endurance."
Lynn explained earnestly,
"In your line of work, you emphasize firepower coverage and barrage suppression. But your endurance is terrible—after firing two clips you're out of ammo, how are you supposed to outlast people? I advise you to go back and practice."
Walking all the way across, he dismantled the guns of all six people one by one, pulled out their magazines, stacked them on the coffee table, and piled them into a neat little tower.
The six people stood in place, maintaining their firing postures, looking down at the empty handguns in their hands, then looking up at the "magazine tower", none of them daring to move.
"Alright."
Lynn patted the dust off his hands and looked toward the source of the voice in the darkness that had spoken earlier,
"That debt between your boss and Obadiah, I'll personally go settle it with him later. Tell him to wash his neck clean and wait—"
"Oh right, the packaging of that batch of goods of his is truly shoddy, I'm helping him offer some feedback."
That person stood in the darkness, their Adam's apple bobbing, not daring to make a sound.
Lynn pulled Ivy up and walked toward the door. When passing the magazine tower, he paused and added a sentence:
"Remember the lesson tonight—"
"For some things, fierce firepower alone isn't enough."
"Endurance is the hard truth."
Stepping out of the bar, the night wind hit their faces, the hot and humid sea breeze pouring into their lungs.
Pulled along by him, Ivy stumbled to the elevator entrance, finally broke free from his hand, stared at him for a long time, and suddenly said:
"Lynn, that whole act of yours just now... what endurance, what three-minute thing, what on earth are you talking about?"
"Literal meaning." Lynn pressed the elevator button,
"A newly learned move, specializing in wars of attrition."
"... Can you be a bit more reliable when you speak?"
"No."
The elevator door opened, he walked in, turned back and gestured with his chin toward her,
"Get in, I'll take you to a safe place. By the way—"
"Show me that list of yours."
Ivy stood in place, looked at that face inside the elevator, bit her lip, and ultimately followed inside.
The elevator doors closed, and the lights of Marina Bay spread out like a golden sea outside the glass windows.
Lynn leaned against the elevator wall, watching the floor numbers jumping overhead, and couldn't help conversing with the system in his heart once more:
"Wheel King... when you picked this name, did you think you were especially humorous?"
[Yes.] The system said, [This system feels that this name perfectly matches your personal style.]
"Get lost."
Chapter 20: Protracted War
Lynn took Ivy to an unassuming business hotel in Marina Bay, registering under a fake name.
The room was on a high floor, and outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a small patch of the sea was visible, pitch black in the night, with only the lights of distant cargo ships moving bit by bit.
The air conditioning was cranked up high, and as soon as they stepped inside, Singapore's sticky heat was locked outside.
Lynn pulled the curtains shut, turned around, and saw that Ivy was already sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, staring at him.
"What are you looking at?"
he asked.
"You."
Ivy said,
"You're a young master of the Stark Family, yet you're staying in a place like this and using a fake name. Just what is your background?"
"No matter how big my background is, I still have to sleep here tonight."
Lynn walked over to the minibar, unscrewed a bottle of water, took a sip, and jerked his chin at her,
"Where's the list?"
Ivy fished a USB drive out of her jacket's inner pocket and spun it around her fingertips:
"Here. The records of Obadiah's dealings with that gang for over three years—funds, manifests, contacts, they're all inside. The boss's code name is 'Vulture', who started out as an arms middleman and specializes in handling shady business for people."
"What else?"
"There's a special transaction."
Ivy said,
"Half a year before Obadiah died, he made a non-arms deal with Vulture concerning a project called 'Power Laboratory'."
"The specifics aren't fully written in the list, but as for the address, Vulture has a habit of keeping the most important things closest to himself."
"Where is he stationed permanently?"
"Bangkok."
Ivy placed the USB drive on the bedside table,
"If you want to investigate, go there and try your luck."
Leaning against the wall, Lynn finished listening and didn't rush to reply. He looked at her, and after two seconds, suddenly asked:
"What do you stand to gain by telling me all this?"
"I'm banking on you owing me a favor."
Ivy stood up, walked over to him, looked up at him, and said,
"A favor like this, when saved up, will always come in handy one day."
As she spoke, her fingertips had already hooked into his collar, her voice lowering with a hint of intimacy that belonged to the night:
"Now, we're done talking about the favor. Shall we talk about something else?"
Lynn looked down at her and smiled:
"What else do you want to talk about?"
"I want to say,"
Ivy tiptoed up, kissed him, and mumbled an addition,
"that theory of yours in the bar about'stamina being the absolute truth'—I'm quite curious, are you actually capable, or is it just all talk?"
This kiss came fast and dense, carrying the recklessness of having survived a disaster.
Her fingertips slid down his collar, unbuttoning one button, then another, with practiced movements—clearly, this wasn't her first time doing such a thing.
Lynn was pressed against the wall by her, his lower back scraping against the corner's edge, but he didn't dodge, instead reaching out to grip her waist and pull her into his arms.
She still carried the lingering scent of smoke and alcohol from the bar, mixed with perfume; pressed close, one could even catch a hint of the salty dampness left behind by the sea breeze beneath it all.
Lynn's fingertips slid down her spine, and through the thin fabric, he could feel her firm, sleek muscle lines.
This woman was definitely not just someone running a talent agency.
"You've trained."
Lynn said in her ear.
"Mm."
She gave a muffled acknowledgement and had already yanked open the collar of his shirt.
"What, scared?"
"What is there to be scared of."
Lynn chuckled softly,
"Of all things, I'm least afraid of a protracted war."
Round one.
She took the lead. Having undergone training, her movements carried a crisp vigor, without a shred of coyness.
But Lynn's reactions were always half a beat faster than hers.
Every time she was just about to flip over and switch moves, her wrists would be pinned by him and she'd be pressed back down. After a few times like this, she bit him on the shoulder and cursed:
"What the hell, why are your reflexes so fast?"
"Trained."
Lynn's voice was muffled in the crook of her neck,
"Specifically trained in this kind of 'give and take' kung fu."
"...You call this practicing kung fu?"
"It's all about the give and take."
He said, "You attack, I defend; you switch moves, I counter. By the end of it, we'll see who can't hold on first."
She cursed, then laughed, her laughter a bit breathless.
As round one ended, she leaned against the headboard, groped for the cigarette pack on the bedside table, pulled one out, lit it, took a drag, and slowly exhaled a puff of smoke:
"Not bad, a bit better than I expected."
"Only 'a bit better'?"
Lynn leaned nearby and looked at her,
"Then how about another round?"
"Bring it on."
She pinched out the cigarette, a light of unyielding defiance in her eyes,
"I refuse to believe it."
Round two was more grinding than round one.
This time she learned her smarts and didn't clash with him head-on; instead, she targeted him right as he was just catching his breath, slow and grinding, deliberately stringing him along.
Lynn's temples throbbed from her grinding, so he reached out to grip her waist and reversed her, pressing her down.
"You're fouling now."
She lay prone on the bed, turning her head sideways to glare at him.
"You didn't say fouling wasn't allowed."
He leaned down, pressing close to her earlobe to say,
"Round two, it's my turn."
She bit her lip and didn't utter a sound, only her breathing growing more and more chaotic.
When round two ended, she completely lacked the strength to light a cigarette. Slumped on the bed with her face buried in the pillow, her voice came out muffled:
"...Honestly confess, did you actually take some kind of pill?"
"No."
Lynn's voice carried a hint of a smile,
"Born with it. Specializing in endurance."
"You call this being born with it?"
She turned her face over, her breath still uneven, her voice terribly hoarse,
"Are you running a long-distance freight here? You've been spinning all night without a single break."
"I'm the Wheel King, after all,"
Lynn reached out and brushed aside her sweat-dampened hair,
"If I didn't spin, how could I be called the Wheel King."
"Shut up."
She rolled over, turned her back to him, and pulled the blanket up to cover her shoulders,
"...I admit defeat, alright?"
The room fell quiet for a moment, leaving only the low hum of the air conditioner and their gradually settling breaths.
Lynn leaned there, looking at the ceiling, thinking she had fallen asleep. After quite a while, she suddenly spoke, her voice sleepy and muddled:
"...Lynn."
"Hmm?"
"You, in bed and out of bed, are a fucking monster."
"Thanks for the compliment."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
After finishing those words, her breathing slowly evened out, and she truly fell asleep.
Lynn lay there for a while, then also closed his eyes.
Outside the window, Singapore's skyline began to show a hint of dawn's pale white.
By daybreak, Ivy was already awake. She sat at the edge of the bed getting dressed, her back to him, her movements crisp as she buttoned up her shirt one by one, looking like a totally different person from the soft, panting figure of last night.
"Leaving?"
Lynn asked.
"Mm."
She fastened the last button, turned back to look at him, her face having already resumed that unfathomable expression,
"As for that matter in Bangkok, be careful yourself. That guy Vulture is not someone to mess with."
"I'm not someone to mess with either."
Lynn said.
Ivy looked at him for two seconds, as if wanting to say something, but swallowed it back. She walked to the door, pulled it open, then paused without turning back:
"About last night—"
"What about last night?"
Lynn interrupted her,
"Last night we just fought a protracted war, and won."
Ivy's silhouette paused for a moment, then she let out a laugh, pulled the door open, and walked out.
The door clicked shut, and the sound of footsteps faded down the corridor.
Lynn lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, he reached out and grabbed his phone from the bedside table.
The USB drive was still pinned beneath the phone, icy cold.
He sent a message to Coulson:
"The list is secured. The thread leading to the 'Power Laboratory' points to Vulture in Bangkok."
A few seconds later, Coulson replied:
"Received. When do you plan to set off?"
Lynn glanced at the brightening sky outside the window, then looked down at his own palm.
He replied with one line:
"Tomorrow."